“Beggars can’t be choosers and all that.”
“Allie,” Tristan groaned, tilting his head to rest on the back of his chair.
“I trust you will think of something to occupy your time.” She turned from the fire and, stepping over to him, kissed his cheek again. “Otherwise, I fear you will drive us all insane.”
11
Allie’s words wouldn’t let Tristan be, though they elucidated facts he already knew.
Hewasbored. Hedidneed a hobby.
WherehadLedger gone?
It was simply . . .
There had been no sign of Ledger. His trunk remained neatly packed and unclaimed in Mrs. Wilson’s bedchamber. The man himself had vanished into the ether as if the dense fog that plagued London had swallowed him whole.
The longer Ledger remained absent, the larger the mystery grew. Worry and concern hung about the edges of Tristan’s days. There were simply too few clues as to where Ledger had gone. Hiring an investigator to run the man to ground felt a bit melodramatic, but inaction didn’t suit Tristan’s temperament.
Adam Ledger was merely a servant. And yet . . . if Tristan pondered darker reasons for Ledger’s silence—a treacherous accident, an attack by thieves—he felt . . .
He felt like weeping.
How bizarre was that?
He even went so far as to mention the sentiment to Isolde one evening as they stole a moment in front of the fire before bed.
“Of course the thought of Ledger coming to harm upsets you, darling.” She grasped his hand. “Ye feel emotion because your enormous heart has a great capacity for love. Ye care about thewelfare of others. Ledger might be an employee, but I think ye had begun to forge a true friendship with him.”
Tristan frowned. Had he?
He was unsure. Dukes didn’t make friends with clerks. The distance between their stations in life was cavernous—a gaping chasm of expectation and privilege.
And even if Tristan wished to claim Ledger as a friend, he was unsure if Ledger would feel the same desire in return. After all, Tristan’s lack of likability hung from his neck like a millstone, and Ledger’s continued absence put paid to the notion.
Regardless, Tristan acknowledged that he himself felt a deep sense of loyalty to the man. Perhaps Isolde was correct. Maybe this was what friendship entailed. Having never had a male friend, he couldn’t say.
All of these thoughts led Tristan to a decision: He would undertake the one activity his gentlemanly self viewed as rather beyond the pale—
He would investigate the contents of Ledger’s trunk.
Tristan didn’t wish to invade his former secretary’s privacy, but there was no help for it. If he wished to find Adam Ledger, Tristan needed all the information he could gather. And if, heaven forbid, some harm had come to the man, then he wished to uncover that, too, and ensure that Ledger was mourned properly.
Mrs. Wilson’s expression scarcely twitched when he asked to inspect the trunk.
“It’s still in my sitting room, Your Grace,” the housekeeper said. “Would you like me to have it brought up to your private study?”
“Please,” he replied.
Which is how, fifteen minutes later, Tristan found himself staring at Ledger’s battered trunk. Utilitarian and nondescript,it featured a pine body with metal-bracketed corners, all in the style of the previous century. Deep scratches in its side and the worn patina of its wood further testified to its age. Tristan imagined Ledger’s father or grandfather had been the first to see the trunk new. It had passed through many a life since then. The homeliness of the item sent a pang arching through Tristan’s ribcage.
The trunk was locked, of course, but a sharp blow across the metal lock from the brass head of a walking stick solved that problem. In for a penny, in for a pound, and all that.
With a deep breath, Tristan lifted the lid.
At first glance, the contents of the trunk appeared too ordinary to be of any use—books, clothing, stacks of letters wrapped in string. What here could possibly point to Ledger’s whereabouts?
Tristan merely needed the name of an acquaintance or an address. Any clue really that would set him on the scent of the trail.
